August 1993. England, South Helens.
...— And having passed the path of the shadow of death, let me not fear death. For death is inevitable, but not final — life is granted through it by the great Nurgle!...
The service to the glory of Nurgle in the "trash temple" of the South Helens dump was drawing to a close. A cross with the sign of the Grandfather in the middle, standing by a kind of "pulpit" assembled from shabby boards and sheets of tin, emitted a greenish-rotten glow with a black stinking smoke. In the light of this radiance, if you looked with your peripheral vision, you could make out dancing and grimacing figures and the faces of demons - there were clearly enough "people" crowded on the other side of the veil of reality for mortals to see their faces in reality for a moment.
Mostly these were the sardonic and swollen faces of Nurglings like Snot - well, that was understandable. After all, such small stuff is always found in abundance on the underside of reality in any garbage dump or landfill. And if an entire cult of Nurgle had made a nest for itself in this dump - then even more so.
But there were other faces among these mugs. Skinny, rickety limbs stretched upwards, and cyclops heads crowned with a single horn, stomachs swollen with intestinal gases - several Plaguebearers were also clearly interested in what was happening in this distant corner of the warp?
At the very entrance to the "temple" stood a group of several people, which was strikingly different from the local "parishioners".
There were six of them. Three of them looked at what was happening and at Reverend Andy, who was leading the service, with a hunted and fearful look in their eyes. And also at a black-haired teenager of about fifteen standing a little further away, dressed to match them: clean and neat.
These three were the recently freed cultists' captives - the same ones who had been lucky enough to survive the encounter with the Khorne-possessed Harry Potter. The same ones who had witnessed the carnage at the dump the day before.
There were three more people standing with them. Two of them were almost indistinguishable from the former captives: simple clothes, jeans, jackets, heavy boots and shaved heads - ordinary gangster stooges or "bulls", as they are called in gangster slang. The third of them...
A three-piece brown tweed suit, a matching brimmed hat, a green shirt and bow tie. His feet, in expensive black shoes, stamped on the muddy ground, and his long, aristocratic fingers tapped the beak-shaped top of a heavy cane.
The Lord accepted the invitation extended by Donnie Six Pieces.
Harry watched the gangsters' reactions to what was happening. He was damn curious: how would a man like Lord react to all sorts of mystical things?
The three former captives looked on in horror, but did not show any particularly vivid reaction - they had already seen enough of what they were "visiting" the cultists. But their accomplices, who had come with the boss, looked at what was happening with wide eyes: amazement and disgust on their faces alternated one after another.
The Lord was impassive. Outwardly. But in the warp, there were distinct emanations coming from him - something like "what the hell is going on here?!"
On the "ambo," at the foot of the cross, a Pakistani prisoner, tied to a wide piece of plywood, was wheezing terribly. His skin was bulging with strange, worm-like swellings, which obviously caused him serious pain. A stinking black liquid was pouring from his mouth, in which a sharp-sighted person could see white dots of maggots. The victim's eyes, bloodshot, were rolling madly.
Finally, Andy finished reading the prayer and took the sacrificial dagger from the hands of Martin, who was assisting him. Or, to be more precise, an ordinary kitchen knife, albeit jagged and rusty. With a slow and precise movement, the "Reverend" ripped open the victim's belly, which burst like a ripening boil, irrigating both Andy himself and the cultists standing nearby with pus, blood, and intestinal contents. This made the latter howl joyfully, licking their lips, stained with the stinking mass.
One of the "bulls" who came with Lord threw up on the floor. And the rest of them covered their mouths and noses, their complexions the color of fresh plaster - after all, the aroma from what happened was absolutely stunning.
The gangster boss himself, although he covered his face with a handkerchief, looked better than his men - and Harry once again admired the man's self-control. Only the Lord's eyebrows frowned, and in the warp he smelled of even greater amazement, disgust and slight confusion.
It was fun watching the Lord. And Harry suspected it would be even more fun to talk to him - the thug would definitely get into shape soon. But first he had to finish his service.
- ...And may His Angel bless this land and this altar! May the divine powers flow into the created world and reward us with the Gifts of Nurgle! - Andy shouted in religious ecstasy, falling to his knees before Harry, who had approached the "ambo".
Under the gaze of those present, the boy took out his scimitar and raised it above his head, as if threatening the heavens hidden behind the tin roof of the "garbage" temple. The steel covered in pseudo-flesh erupted in cracks, glowing with an otherworldly crimson radiance.
The Lord watched the action tensely, without taking his eyes off it. And he didn't notice that his "bulls": both those released by the sectarians and those who came with him – were squinting painfully, unable to look at the unnatural light from beyond the edge of reality.
The boy's hand, clutching the scimitar, fell down, leaving behind a fiery trail - which did not dissipate, but hung in the air, like an eerie crack leading... somewhere. Somewhere outside !
The Lord felt the hair on his head begin to move: a strange wind blew from the crack - or a whisper, he couldn't tell exactly - which, like a sentient being, began to search for something. More precisely, someone.
The first of the cultists, splashed by the burst belly of the victim, howled in a bad voice and began to scratch his face, as if trying to tear off the skin. Black smoke appeared under his fingers, and the fingers themselves began to rapidly turn black - as if an invisible flame had engulfed his head, melting and twisting the flesh.
A few more people, almost all of whom were closest to the altar, began to roll around on the floor, also emitting black smoke. Only Andy, Martin, and Barbara, who was standing nearby and smiling creepily, showed no signs of concern, although they were completely doused from head to toe with the offal of the victim. Andy was still saying something about the Gifts of Nurgle, but Harry was no longer listening: he already knew what would happen next.
Those who had touched the Warp through the breach it had opened were now undergoing one of the most important tests in the life of any Chaos worshipper: the Trial of the Gifts of the Gods! Their bodies and minds would either endure, accepting these Gifts and empowering their wielder, or they would not - and then one of two bad outcomes awaited these poor wretches: death or transformation into a Chaos Spawn.
Harry turned to the Lord, who was still standing at the entrance to the temple, with his companions, and, without turning back to the altar, moved towards them.
"Strange are the ways of the Gods," he said with a smile, stopping in front of the tense group of bandits. "Who would have thought that the shadow master of South Helens himself would come to speak with me? After all that has happened?"
"Boy," the Lord hissed back. He still emitted a sense of incomprehension and frank confusion in the warp, but his face didn't show it. "I don't know what the hell is going on here, but I'm not interested in finding out. Am I right in thinking that you're the root cause of what's going on in this dump?"
Harry chuckled contentedly: the Lord was enchanting both him and his head's tenants more and more. To maintain such an outward composure as to correctly assess the situation and analyze the latest events - this really commanded respect. An excellent acquisition!
"I," Potter shrugged. "The gods have marked me, and I carry Their word to other people."
"Gods, then," the crime boss pursed his lips, not paying attention to the "bulls" who were exchanging anxious glances behind him. "And you are some kind of "messiah" of these "gods" who turned a bunch of drug addicts into a sect of mutant coprophiliacs who summon demons?"
- Wow, - the boy smiled even more radiantly at this. - You are a very insightful person, Mister Lord. And strong, - he nodded respectfully. - To accept such a... atypical reality so quickly, to analyze it and draw the right conclusions - I am in awe! But I think it is worth discussing the details in another place, what do you think?
After a short pause, the Lord nodded and they left the "garbage" temple and slowly walked towards the exit from the dump. There was no one around: all of Andy's cultists were either in the temple or guarding the distant approaches to it.
Despite his self-control, Lord really wanted to get out of the cultists' territory as soon as possible. Despite the "preliminary psychological preparation" conducted by his gang's former doctor, he came here as if to an ordinary gangster "showdown", hoping to finally dot the i's with Andy Tetchfield. Although after the horror that crawled out of Donnie Six Pieces, he subconsciously expected something like this.
"It's not every day you find out something supernatural exists, is it?" Harry said cheerfully, getting into one of the black SUVs parked at the edge of the dump.
- What are you? - Lord asked bluntly, ignoring the boy's phrase. - What is all THIS? - He waved his hand around with an uncertain gesture, hinting at everything he had seen in the last 24 hours. - Some kind of alien invasion of parasitic larvae? Or the beginning of the Apocalypse? What?!
"Wow," Harry chuckled in surprise. "You're surprisingly calm about the end of the world. But about the alien parasitic larvae," he grunted, holding back his laughter. "I didn't think that from the outside it all looked exactly like that."
"So enlighten me," Lord said evenly, placing his palms on his cane, which was resting on the floor of the car. They were sitting together in the car - the "bulls" had taken over another car parked nearby. They were in no hurry to move away.
- Hmm... Well, I guess I should just say right away that this is going to be a damn weird story! - Potter snorted.
"I somehow guessed," the Lord said through gritted teeth.
"Okay then," the boy shrugged again. "Of course, it's a bit tiring to give almost identical introductory lectures a day apart, but oh well. First, let me tell you about the Ocean of Souls…"
...After half an hour of explanations, a small magical demonstration and a couple of hints, the Lord looked and felt less confused and tense. More thoughtful.
"You know, boy," he finally "froze," looking straight into Harry's face. "I've seen some of the most cunning con men and magicians in my life. I've witnessed a lot of fraudulent schemes of such complexity that even the experienced detectives of Scotland Yard couldn't figure them out. I've seen such masters of fooling suckers and cops that many might have thought they were really doing magic. But always – always! – it turned out to be the result of ordinary sleight of hand and the stupidity of their opponents. But this…" again a vague gesture with his hand. "This is something new."
"You saw everything with your own eyes," the boy shrugged.
- Eyes are very easy to deceive, - Lord waved his hand. - But feelings... I've never experienced anything like this before! - the gangster allowed himself to throw up his hands emotionally. Slightly nervously taking out his silver cigarette case, he took out a thin cigarillo and lit it, not caring at all about the presence of the schoolboy next to him. - And you know what, boy? I'd better not fill my head with this devilry for now! And I'd prefer to ask clearly and directly: what do you want from me and what are you ready to give for it?
"Flint is a man!" Harry Sweet Tooth admired inside. "As if nothing had happened, discussing business just half an hour after coming into contact with the Immaterium. He's got balls of steel!"
"Megan reacted the same way," the boy replied indifferently.
"She was under the influence of Slaanesh for a whole year!" the demon waved it off. "The warp sang its lullabies to her mind for a whole year, so in the end your revelations were not a revelation for her... oops ," the Slaaneshi was embarrassed by the resulting tautology.
"Well, apparently you're not perfect either ," Dobryak hummed contentedly. "Who could have guessed that our Purple Prince would be so tongue-tied out of nowhere?"
"Get lost ," he muttered in response, displeased.
"So that's easy?" Harry still feigned surprise in response to the Lord, ignoring the voices in his head.
"There's a saying: when they give you something, take it; when they beat you, run," Lord lifted the corners of his lips, unknowingly quoting a fragment of Officer Cornhill's conversation with his mistress on the same topic. "In front of me sits a creature that has demonstrated incredible supernatural powers - and therefore I have only two options. That is, exactly in accordance with the saying: take it or run. And I'm not used to running," he explained dryly.
Harry didn't answer. He just chuckled vaguely and opened his backpack, taking out a small bottle of strangely shimmering pink liquid.
- Well, first of all, I would like to offer you a new product, Mr. Lord, - the boy smiled. - Allow me to introduce: snake tears!
Summer 1993. England, suburb of London.
When the bag was removed from his head, Mundungus groaned softly and squinted painfully: a direct stream of light was shining right into his eyes. A Muggle lamp most likely - only mundane toys gave such a sterile white light.
He felt nauseous and his head was spinning, as if from the brain-prick potion, the narcotic crap that was still being sold under the counter in Knockturn Alley. His thoughts were confused and seemed to be breaking through a layer of cotton wool, but he managed to remember something...
...He had arrived in that farm field a hundred miles outside of London in an almost Muggle fashion - his contact, a Squib living among Muggles, had insisted that it should look that way. Although Mundungus Fletcher didn't need any training: he had been smuggling between the wizarding and Muggle worlds for many years, so he knew how to behave with mundanes.
After all, it's one thing when Muggles get their hands on magic potions and artifacts, and quite another when they directly witness a manifestation of magic! The first is not exactly a common occurrence, but Aurors could rarely find the ends in such a case. But hiding the fact that Muggles had witnessed direct magic was already more difficult. In order to properly correct a simpleton's memory, you need to be a professional mentalist-obliviator - which Mundungus, for obvious reasons, was not.
Of course, there was still the most radical option - but it was a complete lost cause! Not so much because murder was punished much more severely than all the previous options, and not even because the Killing Curse was easy to track. But because of the simple fact that if you kill your partners and clients, eventually there simply won't be any left.
Так вот, на то поле он пришел пешком по проселочной дороге от ближайшего леска, в который, в свою очередь, аппарировал из Лондона. Насколько Мундунгусу было известно, об этой рощице никто не знал, а потому и столкнуться здесь с кем-то из волшебников было трудно. В конце концов, мало ли в старушке Британии лесов и глухих уголков, скрытых от чужих глаз? Какова вероятность того, что какой-нибудь маг, тем более аврор, будет околачиваться именно тут, в окрестностях заброшенной фермы? Весьма скромная.
He was a little early, as was his habit. Unlike most wizards who naively imagined Muggles as simpletons and dull oafs, old Fletcher had seen some shit. He knew that the punks in Knockturn were no different in principle from the Muggle punks. Not to mention the gangsters who were bigger than just 'punks'.
So, he had long ago gotten used to arriving at a place in advance and carefully observing the situation. He did not even use magic, relying more on his natural instincts and developed sense - they were sometimes much more effective than any tracking and scanning spells.
It was these instincts that almost immediately began to itch, signaling to their owner that something was wrong.
To begin with, the Muggle was alone. Usually, all sorts of "serious" businessmen from among the commoners preferred to appear at least in pairs, not trusting the opposite side. This one was not only alone, but also stood openly, not even trying to hide. In appearance - well, a Muggle and a Muggle, nothing special. Jeans, sneakers, a brown leather jacket, mirrored glasses.
Fletcher took out his wand anyway and, making the necessary gesture, whispered the spell Homenum Revelio, covering the nearby bushes and the wild apple orchard - the places where, in his opinion, an ambush could lie. Nothing. But for some reason, his heart still did not become lighter.
At that moment, Mundungus swore under his breath and jerked his head: something flashed on a nearby water tower, blinding him for a moment and making him blink painfully. Like the eyepiece of some glass device or just a piece of iron polished to a shine - who knows what could have flashed there under the rays of the sun breaking through the thick clouds? But the very fact of a moment of disorientation worried Fletcher again. Not that he believed in omens, but the wizard really didn't like such small unpleasant surprises!
But it was too late to retreat: hearing his curse, the Muggle standing in the field turned around and noticed Mundungus, waving his hand at him. Cursing again, he was forced to come out from behind the corner of the dilapidated farmhouse, behind which he had been hiding, and wave his hand in response.
"Mr. Eph?" the Muggle smiled, extending his hand to shake. Mundungus winced, but returned the handshake.
"That's him, Mr. 'Smith,'" the wizard irritably emphasized the obviously fictitious name of his interlocutor in response. He looked around nervously, as if he was afraid that a squad of Aurors would apparate behind him. "Do you have the money? I'd like to finish all this as quickly as possible."
Mundungus was nervous. Even though his interlocutor's face was half hidden by large mirrored glasses, there was something... familiar about him.
Of course, he had never met this muggle in his life! But it seemed that once upon a time, either in a newspaper or just on a photograph, he had already seen a similar face...
Shaking his head slightly, dispelling the obsession, Mundungus concentrated on the feeling that had brought him here. That is, on the thirst for profit. After all, to pay his bills at the Hog's Head and Madame Pivon's establishment, money was needed - and a lot of it! And some of the less than pleasant fellows from Knockturn were already reminding him about paying off some debts Fletcher had earned at the card table - and that certainly could not wait. So, intuition or not, this deal had to take place at all costs!
"Do you have the money?" Mundungus asked, a little more rudely than he wanted, looking askance at the creepy Muggle.
"Of course," the Muggle smiled slightly, patting the sports bag slung over his shoulder. "And… medicine?" He looked at Fletcher, who had appeared with only a small wallet, with a slightly puzzled expression.
With the air of a magician, Mundungus opened his wallet and took out… a wooden box.
Of course, the expanded space was also an overt manifestation of magic. But, firstly, it was much easier to hide such a memory in the mind than to directly use spells. And secondly, according to the recommendation of the squib-intermediary, this was "one of our own" Muggles - that is, someone who regularly uses the services of wizards and keeps his mouth shut. So a little trick to impress the client was quite appropriate.
The client, however, only chuckled, seeing such a "trick." Mundungus preferred to think that this chuckled was surprised. Although, more likely, it expressed some kind of… satisfaction?
Fletcher once again cast a sharp glance at the Muggle's figure. There was no weapon. On the one hand - great, no problems foreseen. On the other - very strange!
"Show me the money," he shook his head, his eyes darting around the area. Homenum Revelio didn't work? Or was the danger coming from the Muggle himself? He'd read something about how mundane people could do something bad with their bare hands. So it was worth taking precautions. "Put the bag on the ground," he tossed to the Muggle. "Unzip it and show me the contents."
His vis-à-vis merely nodded and did as he was told. There was indeed money in the bag: bills of various denominations, as had been agreed upon. The Muggle slightly spread his empty palms, stepping back, as if inviting Mundungus to come over and calmly count the bills. But he merely swallowed and decided that he would count them later.
As he bent down to leave the potion box on the ground, he kept his eyes on the creepy Muggle. That was why he only noticed a barely perceptible movement at the top of the same water tower out of the corner of his eye at the very last moment. And the next moment, something pricked his neck and Mundungus fell into darkness…
…"The most crude operation I can remember," said an impersonal voice through the layer of cotton wool that was now enveloping Fletcher's consciousness. "I'm telling you this as a sniper!"
"Be careful, my friend," the new interlocutor answered in the voice of that same "Mr. Smith" they had met in that wasteland. "Our guest is coming to his senses."
Mundungus didn't immediately realize that the "guest" was himself. But even when he did, little changed for him.
"Mr. Fletcher? Can you hear me?" A dark figure leaned toward him, momentarily eclipsing the bright light of the Muggle lamp.
- Huh? Yeah, - Mundungus nodded in response, trying to somehow gather his thoughts. - Where am I? Who are you? - he still tried to formulate something from the scraps of consciousness.
"We just want to talk to you," "Mr. Smith" evaded direct answers in a friendly tone. "Answer our questions and you can go free. Together with your money."
"Of course," Mundungus shook his head slightly hesitantly.
"Good," smiled "Smith." "First of all, tell me: why are law enforcement agencies looking for this Sirius Black? And how does this concern... Muggles?" Fletcher's interlocutor asked with a barely noticeable, uncertain delay.
But he, in a strange psychotropic stupor, did not notice this pause. He felt only a dull headache and the desire to answer the question asked. Especially since, it seemed, even small children knew and discussed this information!
Mundungus began to speak, and his interlocutors listened attentively, while discreetly clicking the switch of an inconspicuous dictaphone...
...And after an hour of "conversation", when their "guest" had finally fainted under the influence of the injected drugs, "Mr. Smith" and his partner settled down in the room next door and discussed what they had heard.
"So they artificially focused all the attention of ordinary law enforcement on the search for Black," frowned "Smith", or rather Andrei Dolokhov, a former KGB agent. "Otherwise I was beginning to become disillusioned with the English: they have a real mafia war here, almost on the streets of the capital, and they are just whining."
"MI5 must react to this somehow, right?" his friend Sam Dillinger, still an active CIA agent, grimaced.
"Are you sure that they have more authority than these people ?" Andrey parried, slightly mockingly. "That there isn't some MI-9 ¾ that has all the other intelligence agencies by the balls?"
From the words of Mundungus Fletcher, a small-time crooked wizard they had identified who was pumped full of psychotropic substances, they learned a great deal about the wizarding world of Great Britain. Including platform 9 and ¾, where the train carrying wizard children to Hogwarts stopped – the one Dolokhov had hinted at.
And yes, they both knew perfectly well that this knowledge would have been a guaranteed death sentence for them at another time - and both their Fatherlands would happily disown the hapless former agents. But now, when the British mages were agitated by the escaped terrorist, and their government, like most ordinary governments in such a situation, was more concerned with making a fuss and trying to get political dividends from the situation, they might not be noticed. For the time being.
And so it was necessary to act quickly, while this fuss continued. Besides, when the rogue Fletcher came to his senses, he was unlikely to blab about the fact that he had revealed the existence of wizards to two strange Muggles. If we forget that purely technically they were not Muggles, but Squibs, they would most likely face a banal memory wipe. But poor Mundungus, at best, would be locked up in their Azkaban for a very, very long time - and this was an extremely unpleasant place, where he certainly did not want to go.
"Are you still going to come to the wizards under the name Dolokhov?" Sam asked after they had once again listened to some fragments of the recording of their prisoner's interrogation. "Did you hear what he said about your brother?"
"Yes," Andrey answered with a stony face. "Unless you're a fool and shouldn't go there, I guess…"
"Like with this Fletcher?" Sam chuckled.
"Tell me it was difficult," Andrey snorted in response.
"No," his partner shook his head. "Moreover, I haven't met such impudent and naive swindlers in a long time! Not to scout the area in advance, not to take cover, and even just barely look around - what did he expect?!" the black CIA officer was indignant.
"Magic," Dolokhov answered calmly, glancing sideways at the edge of the table where they were sitting. There lay a worn wooden wand made of once light wood - the main tool of any magician. As Fletcher himself kindly informed them, most wizards without a wand were little different from ordinary people.
In addition to general information about the local wizarding community, they also learned the latest news about what was happening on the Islands. About Sirius Black's escape, about the statements of Minister of Magic Fudge, about many other things. Including about significant people connected with these events.
"Harry Potter," Andrey finally said thoughtfully, while Sam was making coffee. He paused in the middle of the process and looked questioningly at his comrade. "Something like a local living talisman."
"Apparently, the wizards consider him almost a hero or a superstar," Sam snorted at this.
- A thirteen-year-old brat? - Dolokhov stared at his partner, even incredulously. - Don't make me laugh, - he shook his head calmly. - How old was he when he survived that maniac's attack? A year old? Even those scumbags stuck in the Middle Ages hardly really believe that it was his own merit. Maybe only marginal types like Fletcher or some teenagers who have read too many comics about child superheroes. No, - Andrey leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of him. - He's more of a symbol. A kind of banner of hope in the fight against Evil and Terror.
"My God, Andrew," Sam winced in turn, taking the coffee pot off the stove. "At least don't start talking in slogans."
"I'm describing the situation," Andrey shrugged. "After all, this boy is a living slogan. Which local politicians certainly aren't shy about using in their dirty deeds."
"A PR symbol, who is also very easy to manipulate due to his age," Sam nodded understandingly, pouring coffee into mugs.
- Exactly. But not only that, - Andrey took a sip of coffee, as if not noticing the taste. However, it was rare to read anything from his stony expression. - In addition to the fact that the kid is an excellent tool for politicians, he is also bait for unbalanced terrorists. Like Black, - he tilted his head slightly, thinking again.
Of course, from the materials of their Offices they knew something about the situation in Britain: about the uprising of a certain psychopathic terrorist with the habits of a Dark Lord, and about his followers, as well as about his fall. But they learned the specifics only now - from Mundungus Fletcher.
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Dark Lord, Voldemort - that was the name of that terrorist. He was surrounded by an entire army of dark wizards, various kinds of evil spirits and undead - in short, an extremely marginal and unbalanced crowd. True fanatics, promoting goals akin to the Nazis.
Fanatics... Andrey had seen enough of them: adherents of the most diverse senile, dogmatic and narrow-minded teachings - to be imbued with a deep disgust for all of them. Regardless of what flag or symbol they hid under.
The only people worse than them were those who pretended to be fanatics for their own selfish purposes. Such people were either idiots who did not understand the destructiveness of their actions - the same fanatics, only stupider - or calculating scum, squeezing all the juices out of their fellow citizens with the help of ideological dope.
How many of these had he seen while serving in the army? And how many in the Office?
A huge number. These were people who did not try to understand and comprehend reality - on the contrary, with the persistence of a patient in a mental hospital, they tried to fit it into the wretched lines of old dogmas and the statements of their "prophets", "saints" and "leaders". Fanatics, idiots, ideological dealers - it did not matter what they were guided by. The result was the same.
Degradation and, ultimately, the collapse of everything they touched.
Andrey sometimes thought that it would have been better if he had simply and without further ado died back then, in Afghanistan. In the war, as an honest soldier, not drawn into this quagmire of "high offices". To see, almost from the front rows, how a bunch of incompetent senile people and sycophants literally shit out a country that seemed unshakable and unshakable - what could be worse for a person who dedicated his life to this very country? Even their eternal "likely opponents" were not capable of such a thing!
Well, at least you can console yourself with the fact that fools and fanatics are everywhere. For example, in wizarding Britain.
"If we are to believe the words of this worthless man," Sam jerked his head towards the prison cell where their unconscious captive lay, "then we have two factions. On one side, the ossified and unwilling Ministry of Magic, mired in bureaucracy and corruption. On the other, a bunch of radical fanatics dragging wizards 'back to the blessed Middle Ages' and inciting war against 'harmless Muggles,'" the CIA officer snorted.
"Degenerate loyalists versus radical reactionaries," Andrey summed up. "And my brother fought on the side of the latter. Excellent. Simply excellent!" he winced.
"Fools versus fanatics, you wanted to say," Sam chuckled. "It's a depressing picture, I admit. But it shouldn't be us who are depressing, but those who stand in our way. You yourself said that all this is only to our advantage."
"Their stupidity and incompetence are our luck and victory," Dolokhov nodded in response.
They spent some time going over the interrogation material: fortunately, they had absolutely no need to hurry. Now that they had managed to tie up a real wizard alive, there was definitely no need to hurry.
The cottage in the suburbs of London that Andrei and Sam occupied was located on the outskirts, almost in the wilderness, connected to one of the major highways by a narrow country road. As the black CIA agent explained, it used to be his Office's safe house, now either mothballed or abandoned. Well, so what? Britain and the USA, although allies in the Cold War, also looked out for each other. Well, just as insurance - you never know what the allies might do?
The two above-ground floors of the cottage looked shabby. Of course: no one had lived there for several years! The basement was a real bunker with several rooms, including a briefing room, a safe and a prison cell. All the equipment, arsenal and even furniture had been taken away from here long ago - but this did not stop two professionals.
Now they were faced with a very, very difficult task: to penetrate the magical world.
"He spilled the beans to us," Andrey said when another round of interrogation was over. "But pay attention to the part where he talks about this Harry Potter. Even when he's tipsy, our guest unobtrusively avoids some descriptions. This is the level of training of an experienced agent... our level," he emphasized.
"This blockhead doesn't look like an 'experienced agent'," Sam narrowed his eyes slightly, leaning forward.
"Exactly," Dolokhov nodded. "And considering the wizards' abilities in terms of reason…"
"Someone's been doing a good job of picking his brain," the black man drawled. "No matter how they shake him, no matter what they pump him with, Fletcher won't be able to tell you what he shouldn't tell you."
"But we can still draw some conclusions from indirect data," Andrey nodded. "In addition to the magical government and the radical Nazis, there is another side. A side that opposes the second, but is not part of the first. Conclusion?"
"Fletcher is involved in this organization," Sam slapped his palm on the table.
"Exactly," Andrey repeated, slightly lifting the corners of his lips. "For a slippery swindler with a hole in his pocket, he's too knowledgeable. Especially about this boy, Harry Potter. If the boy is being hunted by the surviving Nazis from among the supporters of You-Know-Who, such information would definitely not be entrusted to an outsider.
They did not pronounce the name of the magical super-terrorist out loud not because they were imbued with the superstition of the local magicians. Simply out of precaution: after all, maybe there was some kind of magical way to localize the location and identity of the one who uttered a certain word? And the two of them really did not need such attention!
"Still think we can catch Black if we keep an eye on the kid?" Sam asked. His voice was neutral, expressionless, but there was tension behind it. He didn't like his friend's plan.
"Exactly," Andrey nodded in response. "Of course, it would be desirable to make it before he leaves for their Hogwarts, but… you understand."
"Damn!" Sam Dillinger groaned, leaning back in his chair and covering his face with his hands. "Andrew, we're seriously discussing the possibility of intruding on those guys' territory ! Seriously?!"
"You can jump off at any moment, Sam," Andrey said sullenly. "This is not an operation of our Offices, this is my personal request, so you are free to decide for yourself.
Taking a deep breath, Sam closed his eyes and released the air through clenched teeth. Then he said:
— Being your friend is a stupid, thankless, and damn dangerous job, you know that?
Andrey only smiled sparingly at this. He knew that Sammy would agree.
August 1993. England, Little Whinging. Potter again.
Later, Harry will honestly admit to himself: everything that happened that evening happened, among other things, because he relaxed unacceptably. He was so used to everything going exactly according to his plan, and if unexpected deviations occur, the spirits-advisers will tell him what to do.
But not this time.
- Oh! He's here at last! - came the nasty voice of his "beloved" Aunt Marge from the living room, who was still staying at number four, Privet Drive. And whom Harry Potter hadn't encountered these days only because he ran off to South Helens early in the morning and returned closer to nightfall. Until today.
"Marge, maybe you'd like another whiskey?" Vernon Dursley tried to distract his sister from his nephew. At the same time, he was looking sideways at Harry, trying to somehow resolve the unpleasant situation that had suddenly arisen.
В гостиной был накрыт чайный столик, на котором стоял собственно чайник с парой чашек и блюдо с эклерами — на которые Сластёна тут же нацелился. Но было также видно, что Вернон с Мардж перешли с чая на "чего покрепче".
The boy himself thought with a bit of annoyance that this time he had been thinking too deeply and talking to his inner voices - and therefore had come home too early, and Marge had not had time to go to bed.
"Thank you, Vernon," Marge muttered, only momentarily distracted by the amber liquid that filled her glass. "You and Petunia are so sweet! To take in that juvenile delinquent, the offspring of drug addicts, you have to be an absolute saint. And no offense, Petunia, but it's true: your sister was absolutely worthless! Same with me, Mom," Marge snorted contemptuously. "To smoke herself to death and die so uselessly, not caring at all about her own child!"
Harry slowly swallowed the bitter lump that had formed in his mouth. He looked straight at the drunk Marge, completely ignoring the frantic signals of Aunt Petunia and Vernon with their hands to him and Auntie herself. Dudley had probably already been sent to bed - that's why he wasn't here.
"What did you… say?" he said, with the last of his composure.
- Oh, look at that! - Marge looked mockingly at the boy, not noticing how pale the Dursleys had become. - The impudent boy finally decided to say "hello" to the guest of the house in which he was allowed to live out of pity. And where have you been all these days, huh? I'm telling you, - she turned to Vernon, - he's already got involved with some kind of criminal! Probably smokes dope and hangs out with some underage sluts. His mother was exactly like that, wasn't she? Probably shot up and, while high, gave it to a bunch of men, and then chose the first one she came across that the resulting bastard was ready to admit! - Marge continued her drunken rant. - Well? - she finally stared at Harry. - Now tell me it wasn't taa ... Kёy ...
Her last words were drowned out by a strained wheeze: Marge's neck, under the gaze of Harry Potter, who was clenching his fists and teeth, began to swell, clearly causing her discomfort. However, her entire body almost instantly swelled in the same way: Marjorie Dursley, who was not distinguished by a slender build, but now began to resemble a ball.
"Boy!" Vernon rushed to his sister, not knowing what to do. "Stop it!"
Harry didn't answer. The voices of his four loyal advisors couldn't be heard in his head now - the warp itself was howling like a mad beast, tearing the boy's consciousness into pieces with thousands of voices.
And Marge continued to swell, accompanied by Vernon and Petunia's screams and the plaintive whining of Evil, the only bulldog she had brought this time, who had hidden under the sofa. The chair she was sitting on cracked and shattered - the wood could not bear the weight of the swollen woman. Marge's eyes bulged out of their sockets and also swelled to an unnatural size, as if ready to burst!...
Which is what they did. But they weren't alone.
With a wet pop, two fountains of blood shot up to the ceiling - that was Marge's eyes popping. And then there was a crack of torn clothes, from which her belly, inflated to the state of a tight ball, burst out. Vernon, who had been rushing around his sister, somehow understood with a sixth sense what was about to happen, grabbed Petunia, who had fallen into a stupor, in his arms and collapsed behind the sofa.
And the next moment there was a louder pop. Marge's belly burst open with a loud "pop", instantly painting the entire Dursleys' living room crimson and scarlet, and scattering her guts all over the dresser, TV, and wallpaper.
There was silence for almost a minute. Even the howl of the Immaterium died away in Harry's head, leaving the boy stupefied as to what he had done.
Suddenly the window frame slammed, letting in an official-looking owl with a letter in its paw. Throwing the envelope into the boy's hands, the bird made a turn and flew out the same window.
Harry mechanically opened the parchment and read the contents of the letter.
"...Unauthorized magic... Statute of Secrecy... hearing on the case..." - the letters and lines were confused in his eyes.
"Well, that was awkward ," Sweet Tooth finally broke the silence. "They've made a mess of the eclairs. That's not good..."
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